Of the British Government and his DI
by Dr. Kaitie Holmes
Summary: Greg Lestrade and Mycroft Holmes have finally gotten together-but then Mycroft rejects the DI. On top of the rejection, Lestrade must deal with a triple-homicide and another bloody Holmes... Mystrade, some Johnlock.
1. Rejection and Murder

Greg growled at Mycroft's back.

"That's it? Last night-"

The other man stiffened. "What's done is done, Lestrade, but there is no need to speak of it."

Those words jabbed into Greg's chest. "So what was last night?" he demanded. "A mistake?"

Mycroft turned and looked at Lestrade as if he were only a servant. "I'm glad you understand how the situation stands. I will contact you if I ever need your help again."

The dismissal was painfully obvious. Mycroft settled at his desk as Greg fled from the office.

Mycroft should have been satisfied. He had fulfilled his craving concerning Greg Lestrade, and the DI understood it was never going to happen again.

So why was he so unhappy?

* * *

Greg ignored everyone as he fell into retreat. He hadn't cried in years, not even when his wife had left him, but right now that record was being threatened. How dare Mycroft use him like this? He had acted so...affectionate these past few months, then they had ended up in bed last night, and now...

Now he was nothing. Mycroft's eyes had made that clear.

Pulling out his mobile, Lestrade prepared to call in sick to work, but it rang before he could.

"Hello?" he asked tiredly, rubbing at his eyes.

"Ah. Hello, sir," Donovan said through the earpiece. "We've got a triple homicide."

It took him almost an hour to reach the crime scene. He had come to Mycroft's office in a cab, so he'd had to hail another-which took almost ten minutes alone. That and the horrid traffic had his fuse drastically shortened by the time he reached the scene. It was in a suburban area, lots of trees and homes. The one he stopped at was a simple white, one-story affair with a large lawn and garden. The house was hidden from the street by several large willows. Donovan and Anderson were waiting for him at the gate. He walked by them without a word, in no mood for socializing. The pair scurried to keep up with him.

"This house belongs to Mr and Mrs Twain. Their bodies were found inside."

"Who's the third victim?" Lestrade asked gruffly.

"We don't know."

Irritation had him turning on them. "What do you mean, you don't know?" he barked. "Have you even started looking for an ID?"

"We have," Sally answered, attempting to mollify her boss. "But he has no ID on his body, and his features have been removed."

"Removed?"

"Yes, sir. His fingers were cut off, and so was his face. Sir, his teeth were all ripped out. Someone really doesn't want this man to be identified."

"Obviously," Greg snarled. Marching into the house, he followed the stream of investigators into the living room. The scene was not pretty.

The disfigured man was propped up in an armchair, facing the hallway. His body was completely naked. The Twains were arranged less artistically, if at all. The man was slumped against the wall, a bullet hole in his forehead and a streak of blood on the wall behind him where he had slid down. His wife was laying behind the sofa, her bare feet the only thing visible.

"What do we know?" he asked the room at large. Donovan pulled out her pocket notebook.

"The couple was on vacation and weren't meant to come home for another week. We don't know why they were early. The man was killed by a single gunshot to the head."

"Really?" Greg demanded sarcastically. Donovan pointedly ignored him, continuing with her briefing.

"The wife was stabbed multiple times, mostly in the chest and abdomen, before bleeding out."

"What about that man?" Lestrade asked, indicating the nude, faceless corpse in the chair.

"We don't know much," Anderson admitted. "Just that the body looks to be several days old. I think it was frozen to preserve it."

Greg tried to wrap his head around all the information and come to a conclusion, but it wasn't working. A dull throbbing started in his left temple, making thinking impossible.

"Sir?" Donovan asked tentatively.

"What?" the DI snapped.

"I'm always the last to suggest this, but maybe...maybe we should call Holmes in on this. He could-"

"No," Lestrade growled. "We're going to solve this ourselves. I'll be damned before I talk to another _bloody Holmes _today."


	2. Mapping the Destruction

Picking over the house, the investigators discovered signs that someone had been living there for several days. It hadn't been the Twains-their flight from Egypt had returned only earlier that day. Still no news on the reason behind the early return. They also found the gun discarded in the bushes outside. That and the dirty dishes in the sink were bagged and sent in to check for fingerprints. Photographs were taken, and the bodies shipped to the morgue. Lestrade and Donovan stood in the living room, trying to reenact the victim's last few minutes.

"So," he mused, surveying the room. "We just came home early, we come home-"

"Set our luggage by the front door," Sally interjected. Greg let it slide, trying to control his temper.

"And immediately come into the living room. Why?"

"To sit?" Donovan guessed.

"Or maybe we heard something. Either way, we stumble onto something wrong. See that armchair?" The DI pointed to an overturned green armchair a short distance away from where Mr Twain had been discovered. "I'm guessing the husband was shoved into it, and when he stood up-BAM! Right between the eyes."

Sally jumped at his interjection, but nodded. "Take out the strongest threat."

"Precisely. Then he chased the missus around the desk and stabbed her. That's personal."

"And sexual," she added. "Knives are strong phallic symbols. With the husband, he was dispassionate."

They fell silent. Lestrade's eyes kept returning to the upright chair where the naked man had sat only minutes before. "We need to find out who he was," he murmured. "And how long ago he died. Run DNA against the database while you're looking for fingerprints. I'm going home. Text me with any updates."

Without another word, Greg swept out of the house and 'borrowed' a cruiser. When he reached his flat, he locked the door and pulled a bottle of whiskey from his cupboard. It was happy hour somewhere in the world, after all.

An hour or so later, a text came in. Slightly buzzed, he picked up his phone and squinted at the tiny letters.

**Found a match on the fingerprints. DNA too. You need to come in, sir. -SD**

Groaning, he stood and made his way downstairs. He was sober enough to realize he wasn't fit to drive and hailed another cab. At New Scotland Yard, he slumped into his office and flopped into his chair. Donovan entered right after.

"Whozzit?" Lestrade asked, his words slightly slurred.

"Are you drunk?" she demanded angrily.

"Mebbe. No. Kinda." Lestrade shrugged. "That's besides the point. What'd ya find?"

With a long-suffering sigh, Donovan dropped a thick file on the DI's desk. "A whole lot and nothing at all," she said cryptically.

The file was thick. Flipping through the pages, he felt himself sobering up. There were reports of crimes from all over the world, all with the same DNA and prints at the scene. One, from Canada, had a picture of a massacred child.

"God," Lestrade breathed. "It's a serial killer. We've got to catch this bastard."

Donovan nodded. "And if we're going to do that, you've _got _to put whatever you're dealing with to the side, sir. Snapping at everyone and getting drunk won't help this case."

Knowing she was right, Greg nodded. "I know. But after we solve this, I'm taking a week off. Now, let's get to work."

They walked to the conference room, setting up a board. There seemed to be no pattern-no connections, no types, hardly even the same MO. Sometimes the women were stabbed, others strangled. The men shot or killed by blunt-force trauma to the skull. Some were found in alleys, others in their homes, a couple in a ratty hotel. The only thing that linked them was the forensic evidence.

Lestrade ordered a world map to be brought in, and they mapped the man's progress. The earliest victims were found in a cabin in the woods of Idaho State in America. A single father and his two sons had been on a hunting trip. They were all found shot through the head with their own arrows. Their heads had been removed and mounted on the walls. The killer had then gone up to Canada, swept down a stretch of the States before they lost him in Mexico. His DNA surfaced again in Argentina, and then in France. After travelling through Europe, he detoured to Russia and then China. There was a few months of inactivity, and then he was here, in London.

"Where do we start?" Donovan asked. Lestrade stared, then pointed at France.

"Check the list of flights from Argentina to France around this time. That narrows it down. We'll go from there."

Orders given, Lestrade went back to his office and took a short nap at his desk.


	3. The Threat

"Sir?"

DI Lestrade raised his head and stared blearily at Donovan. His headache had dissipated, but he was still tired. And it was only six-thirty. "What did you find?" he asked groggily, sitting up. Sally handed him a file.

"There were ten flights in the two week interval, not counting private flights."

Lestrade paged through the sheets, staring at the thousands of names. It narrowed it down from the billions of people inhabiting the earth, but it was still a lot to sift through. "Okay," Greg decided. "I want you to separate them into two lists, Americans and others. Then the Americans need to be separated by gender. DNA says our unsub is a male."

Orders given, she left. Lestrade had pulled out the file again, hoping to glean some new piece of information, when a text came in.

**Bored. Need a case. -SH**

Lestrade ignored it. The last thing he needed was to see the consulting detective today. With his luck, Sherlock would _deduce _what had happened with Mycroft, and he'd never hear the end of it.

His mobile buzzed again.

**Lestrade. Give me something to do. -SH**

**You must have something. There are always unsolved cases. -SH**

**Greg, please give him something to do. He just blew up the kitchen. -John**

Sighing, Greg stood. He would have continued ignoring the persistent git if only John hadn't asked. Sticking his head out of his office, he flagged Donovan's attention. "Do we have any other ongoing cases?"

A quick search through the database yielded three results. One petty larceny, one missing person, and one murder-mugging.

"Give him that one," Greg instructed. A murder should keep him busy for a while. Donovan emailed the file to the detective and got back to work.

**Case in the email. Solve it and leave me alone. -Lestrade**

There was no answer, so the DI got back to work. Sally came in with the list, and they got to work, cross-checking the names with those who had visited the other countries. Which was difficult. They got several matches, but it seemed for the most part that the killer had illegally entered into the countries.

Twenty minutes into the search, Sherlock texted.

**Anthony Pine. You have him in custody for petty theft. -SH**

Greg checked the computer. Pine _had_ been arrested for the larceny case.

**He did commit the theft, by the way. Check his car. -SH**

Swearing, he called in that order. Sherlock had just solved two cases in twenty minutes. Before Holmes could ask for more, he sent the file for the missing person. It was over a week old. Let him play with that for a while. They got back to work with the tedious detective work.

That's when another detective opened the door. "Sir," he said urgently. "A call just came in. The man is claiming to be our killer."

Donovan and Lestrade stood and rushed out the door. The rest were huddled around a phone; they had the man on speaker.

"Who am I talking to?" the DI demanded. The voice tutted.

"You don't get to know, Detective Inspector Lestrade. What I want to know is...why haven't you phoned Sherlock Holmes?"

"Why? Do you want us to?"

"Maybe," the voice said. "I want to beat the best, and I've heard that Mr Sherlock Holmes is. The. Best."

"Why haven't you called him yourself?"

"That would be too easy. And not nearly as interesting. Call him. Or I'll kill someone else."


	4. The Consulting Detective

Lestrade immediately went to his office after the man hung up. He hated having to do it, but it was necessary. No one else was going to die, not if he could help it.

"Hello?"

"Hello, John," Greg sighed. "Can I talk to Sherlock, please?"

"Sure. Everything okay?"

"Not really."

John didn't press the issue. There were jostling sounds as John took the phone to his flatmate.

_"Sherlock, it's Greg."_

_"Who?"_

_"Lestrade, Sherlock. Just talk to him."_

_"No."_

_"Why not?"_

Silence fell as John covered the mouthpiece with his hand. When it was removed, Sherlock had the phone and sounded unnaturally cheerful.

"Hello, Lestrade. What can I do for you today?"

Despite everything, Greg felt a burning curiosity to find out how John tamed the detective. "What made you change your mind?"

"John threatened me," Sherlock muttered. "Now get on with it."

"_Sherlock."_

"Sorry," Sherlock apologized. "I meant, get on with it, _please._"

Chuckling to himself at the doctor's power, he explained the case to the detective. It caught his attention.

"Oo, a serial killer! John, let's go!"

After the line went dead, Lestrade went downstairs to wait for the pair.

Sherlock stared at the board and accompanying files for hours. Lestrade left to find his technicians expert.

"Did you trace the call?"

"Yes, sir."

"And?"

The man pointed to a map on his desktop. "A payphone there. We sent cars, but there was no one by the time we got there."

The DI stared at the grainy image for several minutes. There were absolutely no signs of life-only shadows and the payphone on the wall. They already had prints-what they needed was a picture. Suddenly, something caught the detective's eye. It was a tiny white block, high up on the wall, above the phone. "Is that a camera?"

The tech squinted at the screen. "Yes, I think it is."

"Is it one of ours?"

He tried to access the feed, but it was a private line. Taking one glance at the fire walls, he let out a low whistle. "Those are really impressive. I mean, government impressive."

Greg groaned. That could only mean one thing.

Mycroft Holmes had control of that camera.

He had images of his suspect.

He had to talk to him.

No. _Someone_ had to talk to him. Like his beloved baby brother.

"Sherlock!"

"What?" The consulting detective looked up from the floor where he was laying on his back. Somehow he had run out of wall and had convinced someone to plaster papers on the ceiling. John wasn't in the room.

"I...I found something that might help, but I need you to ask...your brother for his...assistance."

Sherlock held absolutely still for a minute, then rolled onto his stomach. There was a hint of danger in his eyes; the predator had sensed a weakness in his prey.

"Why do you need _me _to do it?"

Shrugging nonchalantly, the older man pretended to be interested in his newly papered ceiling. "Well, you _are_ his brother. I figure he'll do you a favour."

"I hate owing people favours," Sherlock frowned. "And you are friends with my _brother_. Why don't you ask?"

"I just told you-"

"Something happened."

Unconsciously, his left eye twitched. Sherlock's sharp eye caught it, and he grinned wickedly. "I'm right. I'm always right. So, what was it?" The raven-haired man jumped to his feet and stared intently at the other man. "Business? You do let your work get to you...No? So personal. What could he do to make you ignore him? And on a case like this..."

"Sherlock," Greg warned, "Drop it. It's none of your damn business."

"Oo," Sherlock grinned, "Something _really _bad. Hurt your _feelings-"_

Lestrade couldn't help himself; he slugged Sherlock, knocking him to the ground. On his back, the younger man kicked the DI's legs out from under him. As he fell, he purposely angled himself so his elbow drove into the other's stomach. Cursing, Sherlock shoved him off, and attempted to rise. Grabbing the back of his shirt, Greg yanked him back hard.

"Listen here," he snarled, pressing his arm against the detective's throat. "That is none of your business. You are going to _drop it_, or I will plant drugs in your flat and have you detained for possession and intent to sell. Are we understood?"

Glaring, Sherlock attempted to twist out of the DI's grip. Lestrade deftly flipped the younger man onto his stomach, twisting his arm back until his hand touched the nape of his own neck. "John!" Holmes gasped.

"I said, are. We. Understood?" he repeated dangerously. Wordlessly, Sherlock nodded.

"What the _bloody hell_ is going on in here?!"

Releasing the man underneath him, Greg stood and dusted his suit off. "Nothing," he said gruffly. "Sherlock was just agreeing to call his brother." With that, he strode from the room without a backwards glance.

"Are you alright?" John demanded, rushing to his flatmate's side. Sherlock slowly sat up and glared balefully at the doorway as John checked him over. "You're lucky, Sherlock," he murmured. "Another ounce of pressure, and he'd have dislocated your shoulder."

The consulting detective remained silent until the army doctor helped him to his feet. Immediately, he pulled out his phone and called his brother's phone.

"Who are you calling?"

"My brother. He and I need to have some words."

John nodded, and took that as his cue to exit stage left. Almost as soon as the latch clicked, Mycroft answered.

"Hello, brother mine. How-"

"What did you do?"

**AN: Hellos! Please remember to review. They make me update faster! I promise. Please let me know what you think. Everyone who updates gets imaginary jelly babies!**


	5. Points for Trying

There was a long pause before his brother answered. "I am sure I don't know what you mean-"

"Lestrade is pissy and it's all your fault. Fix it."

There was an icy coldness in the elder Holmes' voice as he answered. "That is none of your business."

"I don't care whether it's my business or not," he responded angrily. "It is interfering with my work."

"...I'll do what I can. Is this the only reason you called?"

"No," Sherlock grumbled. "I need something from you..."

After Mycroft sent the footage, they hung up without another word. John poked his head back inside to make sure his friend was done before coming back. "I made some tea," he offered, extending a cup. "It's not the good stuff, since it's from here, but...it's tea." Sherlock reluctantly accepted the drink.

"I tried," he informed John. "I was nice to him."

John drank his own tea for a moment. "_Why,_ exactly, was Greg kicking your arse when I walked in?"

Scowling into the steam rising from the brown liquid in his cup, he muttered, "I may have commented on something I noticed."

"_Sher_lock..."

"It's not my fault!" he said defensively. "Okay, maybe a little, but I tried. That's what counts, right?"

John turned from his friend with a sigh, staring at a spot on the wall. Sherlock set his cup down and sidled up to his blogger.

"Jawn, you're not going to punish me, are you? You won't take them away..."

After a moment of agonizing debate, John dug in his pocket and held a packet of cigarettes with a long sigh. "Fine. If you get lung cancer, it is _your_ fault."

Seizing the carton, the detective shoved it into his pocket. He had to stop leaving it laying around if John kept confiscating it. "And, John?"

"What, Sherlock?"

"...the other thing?"

John's lips twitched, trying to contain a smirk. "What about it?"

"Do I still get it?"

"Lay off on the smoking and solve this case first."

A little heady from his power-trip, John left the room. The consulting detective stared after the little man before putting his mind palace on red-alert-this case ranked an eleven. More if he solved it.

**AN: Just a quick, to-the-side chapter. Back to the heavy stuff soon. Please review!**


	6. Some Deductions

Lestrade stood in his office, staring out the window. He had to pull himself together. This day had been absolute shit, and the sun was only now dipping below the horizon. If he had known how brutally Mycroft would break his heart...

He would have done the same damn thing.

Scrubbing at his face, he jumped a little when a knock sounded at his door. "Come in," he called, quickly composing himself before he turned. It was John with a cuppa.

"You okay, Greg?"

"Yeah, fine." He flopped onto his chair and accepted the tea from his friend.

"I don't think you are," John said gently, sitting opposite him. "When you're fine, you can put up with Sherlock."

He really needed something stronger than tea-again. "I'm just...going through something personal right now. I'm trying to keep it to myself..."

"Too much stress," John diagnosed. "You need some time off."

"Don't I know it. But I can't. This case-"

John interrupted, "I know. I understand. I'm here if you need to talk."

Lestrade nodded, not accepting the offer-only acknowledging it. He wasn't one to lay out his personal life for people to examine-unless he was extremely drunk. "Thank you, John, but I'll be fine. You should probably get back to Sherlock now. I'll come and apologize when I know I won't hit him again."

With a curt nod, John stood and left Greg alone. The DI stared at the surface of his desk. It held his laptop, a phone, a lamp, mountains of paperwork, an old cup of coffee. A picture of his wife used to sit there-until she became his ex. Why did this always happen to him? He was a good man, wasn't he? He deserved love.

So why did it always slip through his fingers?

* * *

It was nearly eleven before Lestrade could leave his office. Untouched cup of tea in hand, he knocked on the conference room. No one answered, so he entered. John was passed out on a chair; his flatmate was sitting cross-legged on the floor, fingers templed beneath his chin.

"Sherlock?" Greg called tentatively. He set his mug on a table. The consulting detective said nothing, made no sign that he had heard. The older man sat by his side, modeling his position. "I'm sorry," he said quietly, "about earlier. It never should have happened, and I will do something to apologize."

"You'd better," Sherlock grumbled. That, and nothing more.

"What have you got for me so far?"

Sherlock gladly explained, pointing at papers and pictures tacked all over the room. "It's a man, obviously. White, in his early thirties. He has weapons training, but not medical-probably self-taught. American, but you already figured that out. He's short, only a little taller than John. He's also a vegetarian."

"Vegetarian? How the hell-"

"The homes he ate at. Never meat, no traces on any of the plates. Only salad dressing, pasta bits, bread."

"Ah," Greg said. What else was there to say?

"He wears a size ten, and has a scar across his left palm. He's constantly dyeing his hair. Blonde, brown, black, blue."

"Ah. Anything about the victims? Do you know how he picks them?"

"No," Sherlock growled, frustrated. "There have been blitz attacks, carefully planned home invasions, crimes of opportunity. It makes no sense!"

"Not right now," he said reassuringly. "But it will, Sherlock. You always crack the case."

"Of course I do," he said arrogantly.

Greg clapped him on the shoulder. "Good to see you haven't changed." He stood and left the room for a few minutes, returning with a blanket for John. Sherlock was back in his own little world.

"When you come to," he murmured, setting a file on his lap, "these are the names of possible matches. There are forty-seven names. Good luck, Sherlock."

Even though he knew Sherlock probably couldn't hear him, it made him feel better to talk.

It was late, and all he wanted was to go home and sleep. His paperwork was done, so he could go home...

But that wasn't fair to everyone who was working late. He stared dumbly at his computer screen for a while before nodding off at his desk.


	7. Taken

The detective was startled awake by his laptop. It was already seven in the morning, and his neck was cramped from sleeping on his desk. Turning to his screen, he found an email. The lab had cleaned up the footage that Mycroft had sent, and a face had been identified. It was a little grainy, but he could easily see the face of the man on the phone. He ran the photo against his list of suspects and came up with one hit.

Justin Carter.

Quickly printing off the information, Lestrade was on the way out the door when his phone chimed.

**Mr Holmes wishes to speak with you. Be outside in five minutes. -Anthea**

A civil war was waging in Greg's head. Half of him really wanted to run outside and jump in the car that would take him to Mycroft; the other wanted to ignore the man.

After several moments of indecision, he carried the new information to the conference room.

"Here," Lestrade grunted, shoving the file at Sherlock. "Tell me where I can find him. Don't do anything until you hear from me. I mean it, Sherlock."

John nodded from his chair, watching the two. "Don't worry, Greg. I won't let him."

The DI nodded, and left the two to have a quick domestic. He was probably going to have to have his own soon.

True to her word, one of Mycroft's sleek black cars was waiting for him outside. Greg caught sight of his reflection in the mirror. His suit was rumpled and his hair wasn't combed-Mycroft was going to have a fit-

He _would _have had a fit. Before.

"See if I care anymore," he muttered, pulling the car door open. He swung in, already speaking. "You know, I have a phone. He could try calling every once in a-You're not Anthea."

The man in the car next to him grinned menacingly. The vehicle took off before Greg could leap out. He reached for his gun-

His holster was empty.

Swearing, he vaguely remembered taking it out and laying on his desk before he'd fallen asleep. Lack of sleep had really messed up his decision-making lately. "How did you get this car?" he demanded. He couldn't clearly see his face, but... "You're Justin Carter."

"I am!" he grinned. He lifted a mobile phone and waved it in the air. "And getting the car wasn't hard. Just had to jump a certain personal assistant while she was out at lunch and grab her phone."

"What did you do to Anthea?!"

"Oh, relax! She's fine. Mostly. I'll leave a message so someone will find her."

"What do you want?"

"Oh, just to say hi. How are you, by the way?"

Lestrade glared at him, itching to punch the man. He couldn't see a weapon on him, and was carefully weighing his options. "...fine. Anything else?"

"Oh, um, yeah...I'm going to kill you."

"Why?"

"Sherlock is being so _fucking_ slow...It's been nearly a whole day, and he still hasn't caught me. This is...well, think of it as encouragement. Each day he doesn't solve the case, I'll kill someone he cares about."

Lestrade forced a laugh, glancing out the tinted window. He had no idea where they were going. "You obviously haven't met Sherlock. There aren't many people he cares about."

"Oh, we both know that's a lie. There's you, John Watson, Mrs Hudson, his brother, Molly Hooper, his parents. I have eyes everywhere, and I know these things."

"He's going to catch you," Greg said. "And he won't like that you threatened-"

"I know," Justin grinned evilly. "But he hasn't solved my puzzle."

"What puzzle?"

"The body!" the man yelled. "He hasn't figured out who he is, why I killed him. He _has _to solve it!"

The man was out of his mind. Absolutely crazy.

"So what?" Greg demanded arrogantly. He knew he was going to die, so he continued, hopping the man would slip up. "You're just going to shoot me and leave me on the side of the road?"

"Oh no. No, we've got to make it _special. _Now, turn around." Carter pulled a knife and pointed it at the detective. Lestrade turned and let the psycho handcuff him-with his own cuffs. He just had to stall, he realized. Just stall until Mycroft realized that Anthea was missing. He would use the car's GPS and find him.

Mycroft would save him.

The American manhandled him from the car, and circled around to the driver' side. The window rolled down, revealing the driver. He was a middle-aged man who had obviously been crying.

"P-please, I did what you asked. J-just give me back my wife-"

The killer whipped a gun out and shot him through the head. Greg cried out, outraged, and started struggling. Justin slammed the butt of the pistol into Lestrade's head and shoved him forward, up a brief staircase. Looking around, he spotted no one. This was a shady part of town, one where drug raids happened on a regular basis. Why hadn't he told someone where he was going?

Carter shoved him through the doors, down a hall, and into a small, windowless room. A single metal folding chair was set up in the middle. The American tied him to it securely and left the room for a minute.

"Mycroft," Lestrade whispered, "Please hurry. I really don't want to die yet."


	8. The Video

The American came back into the room and set a small table down in front of Lestrade. He left once more, coming back with a laptop tucked under his arm, dragging a tripod behind him. He set the laptop on the table and hooked the camera to it. Carter spoke as he worked.

"I know you're worried they'll track me, but they won't. I studied at MIT. I know how to hide my trail. Now, this will stream right to your laptop. I'll run it on a loop, just in case no one sees it at first."

"No one goes in my office," he informed his kidnapper. Justin stilled for a moment, then approached the DI. Going through his pockets, he found his mobile.

**Something on my laptop you need to see. -Lestrade**

"There," he murmured. "Now, are you ready for your close up?" Lestrade opened his mouth to give a snarky response when the killer hit him over the head. He slumped forward, unconscious. He opened up his laptop and started filming, carefully staying out of the camera's range.

"Hello, Sherly! It's me. You've been taking so long solving my puzzle, so I've got a small game for you. Think of it as a side quest. Here is Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. He may or may not be dead. If you can find him before noon, I'll spare his life and give you a clue. Ready, set, go!"

Pausing the live feed, he set the video on a loop and smiled.

Let the games begin.

* * *

"John. John. Jawn!"

John Watson was startled awake by his flatmate shouting his name. Sherlock was sitting at the table in the corner of the conference room, flipping through some folders.

"What, Sherlock? Did you find something?"

"My phone went off. Get it."

"Where is it?"

"In my pocket."

Rolling his eyes, the army doctor rose and went to the detective's side. His phone had a text from Lestrade.

"C'mon, Sherlock. Greg needs you to see something."

With a long-suffering sigh, the tall man rose gracefully and followed John down the hall. Once in Lestrade's office, they went directly to the computer and turned it on. The DI had logged off; they needed the password.

"Let me," Sherlock ordered. He sat in the chair and typed in the name of Lestrade's ex.

**Password incorrect**

Sherlock scowled. "He changed it. Give me a moment." He sat there, staring at Lestrade's desk. There had to be some kind of hint, something... There was nothing really personal on top of the desk, so the detective opened and closed drawers. In one, he found a bundle of receipts. One from just last week, a fancy restaurant. Sherlock barely glanced at it, but his eyes caught something. The name on the receipt wasn't Lestrade.

It was Mycroft Holmes.

Flipping through the slips, he found his brother's name on all of them. Why had he and the DI shared so many meals? They were friends, sure, but...

_Oh. Ohhh... _

Turning back to the screen, he typed his brother's name in. The computer welcomed him.

Almost immediately, a video player popped up and began itself. The duo watched in stony silence.

"Sherlock...Is he...dead...?"

Sherlock watched the tape run another loop before shaking his head. "No, he's alive."

John glanced at the clock on the wall. It was eight-thirty. "We have three and a half hours to find him," he commented anxiously.

"Don't doubt me, John. It's not _nice_."

The blogger refused to respond to that. He was much too worried about his friend. "Sherlock, how are we going to find-"

Sherlock politely told him to shut up and retreated into his mind palace, occasionally resurfacing to re-watch the video. Half an hour passed before John had a brilliant idea. "Sherl-no, don't tell me to shut up, just listen. Can't we track him using the CCTV cameras?"

The detective frowned. He had been so caught up in the challenge that he hadn't thought of the simplest option! He grabbed the sides of John's face in his hands and pulled him down for a brief kiss. "I knew there was a reason I keep you around," he teased.

The fastest way to gain access to the cameras was to go straight to the top.

He pulled his mobile from his pocket and dialed his brother.


	9. Tracking

Mycroft signed the document on his desk with a sigh. Today was Tuesday, the day he usually went to lunch with Gregory-

But he mustn't think about that.

Pressing the buzzer on his phone, he called for Anthea. She didn't answer. Mycroft checked the clock on his desk. Anthea should have been back by now; she usually didn't take long for breakfast. He was preparing to call his assistant when his phone went off beneath his hand. "Mycroft Holmes," he answered promptly.

"We need your help, Mycroft."

"When don't you need me?" Mycroft muttered at his brother. Really, his childish antics needed to stop. He said he'd take care of the DI, and he would-there was no need to keep calling...

"Shut up. It's about Lestrade."

The older man hesitated before answering. His brother sounded...a little anxious. Had something happened to Gregory? "What happened?" he demanded. His younger brother said nothing more, only told him to hurry to New Scotland Yard. Once the car reached the police centre, John and Sherlock pulled him into the building."What is it?" he questioned, being dragged along by the arm. They said nothing until Sherlock forced him into Lestrade's office. Mycroft was expecting Greg to be waiting inside, but the room was empty. "Wha-?"

"Watch," Sherlock ordered, shoving his brother into the desk chair. He moved the mouse, and the screen brightened. A video popped up.

**~oOo~**

"What do you need me to do?" Mycroft inquired urgently. Sherlock repeated John's idea, and the government logged into his network from Greg's computer. It was mere seconds before he had the footage from the cameras outside New Scotland Yard. They watched Greg leave the building and climb into-

"That's Anthea's car!" the elder Holmes exclaimed. There was no way she would be involved in the kidnapping. She must be a victim, and if she were hurt-

No. She was a fighter. She would survive.

And he had a way to find her. Five years ago, he had given her an anklet for Christmas and instructed her to always wear it. He'd also told her how to activate the tracking device embedded in the metal. He pulled up the programme and quickly tracked his assistant. She was in an alleyway by the restaurant she liked to frequent. The chip announced that she still had a pulse. He called the hospital for an ambulance, then turned back to the computer. He had to find Gregory now. The kidnapper had taken Anthea's car, so he could track the GPS. After a quick search, he found that it was in an abandoned lot by the river. The three ran to a car and sped through every light to get there. Once they reached the destination, Sherlock and John led the way into the closest empty building, guns drawn. The car was no where in sight. Mycroft followed right behind, hand tightly clenching the handle of his umbrella. There was no question in his mind as to what he would do to the man who'd taken Gregory. He may have ended things between them, but he'd be damned before he let the other man be hurt.

Sirens outside announced the arrival of the other police cars. The Holmes and the army doctor were already on the second floor, thoroughly searching each room. The most they had found at this point was a stray cat and her litter living in a cardboard carton. Mycroft had a very bad feeling about this...

The last door, the one at the end of the hall, was locked. Sherlock tried kicking the door open; that failed, so he resorted to using his lock-picking kit. Mycroft waited anxiously, tapping the tip of his umbrella against his shoe.

His younger brother carefully pushed the door open, revealing the interior of the room. In the middle of the room, resting on a folding chair, was a bomb. The three of them barely had time to duck into another room before it exploded.


End file.
